


An Impromptu Cadaver

by speakingshakespearean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, written fic and podfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakingshakespearean/pseuds/speakingshakespearean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case gone wrong has left Sherlock childish and John throughly fed up. Worrisome head wounds and an unsolvable cadaver case may or may not improve matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Impromptu Cadaver

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on tumblr - it was written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 1. Now that I've also podficed it, I thought that it would make a nice first post.
> 
> If anyone desires to listen to it as well/instead, click on the link below!

If anyone would prefer to listen: [here's the link!](http://www.mediafire.com/listen/q72o10lomh85hbh/An+Impromptu+Cadaver.mp3)

 

Putting it mildly, even to himself, John Watson decided that this particular cab ride was one of the most excruciating he had ever sat through. He was staring at the window. The good doctor was well aware that punching through said window was neither advised nor possible. Well, maybe it was possible, but not without a lot of blood and unnecessary damage to public transportation.

Still, the urge was nearly overwhelming.

He could see Sherlock in the brief seconds of reflection the window provided. The detective was visibly thinking, shaking from the effort of containing himself in a claustrophobic cab. John swallowed, unconsciously moving closer to the door and away from his insanity driven flatmate. Not because he was worried for his own safety from Sherlocks barely contained wrath.

In all truthfulness, John didn't want Sherlock to get any ideas. At that moment, he was most concerned about Sherlock suddenly remembering that John carried a handgun at all times. If the detective stumbled upon that, John was positive he would plunder it, no matter what kind of fight they would get into in the backseat of a cab.

As the offensive wall wasn't there to take a beating, John was quite concerned for the safety of the cab's roof.

So much for keeping public transportation intact.

Good news was, Sherlock still seemed ignorant of that little piece of information. However, he was not as ignorant to John's movements as the doctor had been relying on. The detective's head whipped around, forcing John to slowly copy him and look into wild eyes.

“What?” Sherlock demanded. His voice was angry, much more menacing in a small space.

“What . . . -what?” John decided it was best to play dumb.

“You moved. Away from me, right there, you moved – why?” Sherlock suddenly winced, his face scrunching for a half-second. This wasn't unexpected. The fact that his deductions had sent them wildly off course for this particular case was obviously sending him into a pit of anger. He was now set on proving himself, proving that his mind still worked.

John watched the detective's hair nearly crackle with the need to determine why he got everything wrong. “No I didn't,” he defended simply, shrugging his shoulders.

“Don't be stupid.”

“Well, maybe you got it wrong. Wouldn't be the first time today,” John muttered. He knew that was unnecessary too, probably more so than sending his fist through the window (if that were possible). He had no justification, but the statement came out anyway.

“I didn't get it wrong, I can't have. It doesn't make any sense,” Sherlock snarled adamantly.

“Oh, really. Explain to me then – why did you almost get killed? Why did you almost get me killed? We both could've died, Sherlock, do you understand that?”

“Of course,” he blustered, his head twitching as he sneered. “Besides, you were never in danger, stop playing that up.”

“Stop playing- what the hell do you think-”

“Oi! I'd appreciate it if you would keep your rows out of my cab!” the cabbie suddenly hollered at them. John mumbled himself into silence whilst Sherlock looked absolutely prepared to take the cabbie's head off. Instead, he tucked his coat securely around his face and slumped against the seat, resting his left fist against his mouth as he fell back into some obscure 'Sherlock' realm of thinking.

There was a good few minutes of excruciatingly tense silence.

“You should really get a splint for that,” John finally mumbled, gesturing vaguely towards Sherlock's other hand. It was carefully balanced against the detective's leg, curled into an awkward half-fist. It was obviously sprained, if not broken.

“I'm fine,” Sherlock grumbled, his baritone voice blending the two words together so it sounded more like a petulant grunt then anything else.

“Don't get me started on your head,” John countered, glancing at the dried blood that was matting a section of Sherlock's hair. The bit looked out of place next to the rest of the curls, all of which seemed to be sticking out in order to somehow aid deductions.

John was suddenly under the absurd impression that the reason Sherlock's hair was so curly was because curls made his head bigger, therefore he was able to think about more things.

That idea was banished rather quickly.

“A shower will do,” Sherlock insisted stubbornly.

“You probably need stitches.”

“You will not put stitches in my head. Nor will anyone else, for that matter.”

“Your brain might fall out. Then where would we be?” John grumbled, mainly to himself. He regretted saying the words aloud at all, because Sherlock's glare was redirected solely at him. He pointedly ignored the detective, keeping his eyes on the accursed window that still looked like an appealing punching bag.

“John.”

“We all make mistakes Sherlock. God knows it's relieving to actually find out you're capable of humanity,” the doctor snapped, already irritated. Which wasn't a good sign, as this type of sulking on Sherlock's part was bound to last at least a week.Sherlock grunted irritably, childishly pouting. The cab suddenly stopped, throwing them both forward slightly.

“221B. Baker Street,” the cabbie huffed, obviously still upset. Sherlock threw a handful of paper notes over the seat, cash he seemed to have pulled from nowhere. Briefly catching a glimpse at the handful, John calculated it to be a pretty impressive tip. He felt an involuntary grin on his face, for no real reason. It was out of character for Sherlock, yet the doctor knew that the extra cash had been given out of some strange excuse for an angry God-complex. The thought entertained him.

That is, until he followed Sherlock's lead out of the car. John stood on the curb as the cab sped away, watching Sherlock stride for the door to their flat and proceed to slam it closed behind him. The gesture was pointless, merely causing John to waste an extra two seconds in order to open the door again. The angry gesture still made him debate just leaving right then and there. Maybe letting Sherlock cool off for a day would do them both some good.

No. The detective had a worrisome head wound that he wasn't about to take care of properly. The good doctor heaved a sigh, relenting and following Sherlock into the flat.

Mrs. Hudson looked rather surprised as John trekked up the stairs. “Oh, there you are, love,” she gripped his arm. “Whatever is wrong with Sherlock?”

“Bad case,” John shrugged it off. “Don't you worry, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh,” she still looked rather put off. “I'll go make scones, shall I? He likes those, sometimes.”

“That would be lovely,” John agreed, mainly to keep her from hanging around the flat. He was still unsure of Sherlock's general mental stability. He made a mental note to check all the normal and then less normal hiding places around the flat later on. Tonight was probably a danger night. He'd have to tell Mycroft.

Instead, he frowned at the closed bathroom door. No sounds came from it, in fact the entire flat was rather still. John rocked back and forth on his feet, debating what to do. The bleeding head wound still irked him. Realistically, letting Sherlock do anything would render it at risk of infection. That was far worse than anything he may end up finding on the other side of the bathroom door.

So, John strode purposefully for the door. He knocked twice, pausing for only a couple seconds. He was sure Sherlock wasn't about to answer him. When no response came, John stomached his unease over the inevitable wrath of his flatmate, pushing open the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, stumbling back a couple paces at the sight of what was behind the door.

“Sitting with a corpse. Isn't it obvious?” Sherlock huffed. Indeed, he was sitting with his back against the tub, slumped down so his head could rest against the lip of the tub. He was sprawled across the bathroom floor, his legs resting straight in front of him at wide angles that only looked awkward with the detective's height. His coat was spread around him, making him look vaguely like a crash-landed bat.

The tub itself was occupied by a dead body.

“Why?”

“Experiments,” Sherlock emphasized each syllable, making it nearly sing-song.

“Alright, well, come to the kitchen. I need to-”

“If you're insistent on treating my head, do it here,” Sherlock pouted.

“I'm not fixing your head when there's a dead body in the room. There's all types of infections on that!”

“I assure you, it's perfectly clean.”

“Nothing is clean enough for an open head wound.”

Sherlock groaned dramatically. “Don't be dull, John. Unless you'd prefer for me to just bleed here on the floor?”

Biting back all the insults he was dying to hurl at the man, John wordlessly entered the bathroom. He grudgingly sat beside Sherlock, unceremoniously moving the dark-haired head in the position he wanted it in.

“Ow,” Sherlock's voice was dry like powder, painfully mocking.

John ignored him, but was exceedingly more careful as he actually started on the injury. He carefully cleaned away the dried blood, wiping matted curls clean of the mess as well. John was sure to clean each bit of hair carefully. He knew that if he didn't, Sherlock would only complain about dirty hair, as he would be forbidden to wash it for the rest of the day while an initial round of disinfectant worked through his system.

Overall, the doctor decided that while he still would medically recommend stitches to be used, Sherlock would be fine without them. In all honesty, it relieved him. It was far easier this way then wrestling the man-child to the hospital would be. Painkillers after the hospital would also be a problem.

“Thank you, doctor,” Sherlock angrily taunted as John secured a bandage in place.

“Don't anger the man who has your pain level in his hands,” John grumbled, waving a bottle of painkillers in front of Sherlock. That shut the detective up. Then, he grimaced.

“Nothing stronger?” he was nearly in full-blown pout mode again. “I'm hurt, John.”

“Did you want them or not?”

Sherlock's lip curled as he swiped the bottle.

“Boys!” Mrs. Hudson was suddenly yelling for them. Sherlock's eyes rolled upwards dramatically. He rolled to his feet, stalking out of the bathroom. His coat flew behind him, giving the impression that he was attempting to look like a whirlwind.

Lestrade looked rather confused and suspicious at the two of them coming out of a bathroom. John kicked the door closed behind him. Letting the DI see a corpse in their bathtub was not high on the doctor's 'to do' list.

“What...were you doing in there?” the DI's suspicion shined through.

Sherlock merely looked at the man. Beat. “Where are you with that missing cadaver case?”

John nearly choked, suddenly the corpse in the tub made much more sense. Sherlock looked at him, a perfected expression of quizzical speculation etched across his features.

There's a bloody cadaver in the tub.

Lestrade, distracted from his earlier notions of absurdity, looked put off. “Nowhere,” he grudgingly admitted. “No leads at all, it's barely a case. Someone will probably need to compensate for the lost funds, but there's not much else to do.”

“John will look into it,” Sherlock volunteered. Aforementioned doctor gritted his teeth, putting forth all the effort he could muster not to give his insufferable flatmate another injury.

Lestrade offered a half shrug. “If you're so inclined. None of that is relevant, I'm stopping by to tell you that your case just resolved itself. Turns out the daughter reappeared. They let the dog go, it was never missing.”

There was a brief pause. Then, Sherlock exploded into a triumphant laugh, leaping into the air and kicking himself off the table that sat nearest. He spun around midair, landing in order to face John. “You see? It wasn't me that got it wrong! The dog, yes. I told you it was because of the grass. Gardener's fault, obviously.”

“Yes, good,” John sighed wearily, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. “The world has regained balance.”

“I was right, John.”

“Big surprise.”

Sherlock was grinning wickedly before he collapsed cheerfully into his chair. As if only just remembering it, he pulled out his injured hand, holding it up as if seeing it for the first time. “My hand, John. Why haven't you done anything?”

“Jesus, Sherlock-”

“I'm injured, John.”


End file.
